Blood Moon
by ArtemiScythe
Summary: The moon rises along with blood and passion, binding them until they are forever intertwined.


**Hi! This is a crosspost of the little story I shared over Arcive of our Own.**

 **Please R &R (read and review) ^_^**

* * *

 _"her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning; her power to enamor, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane..."_

* * *

It is not his intention to know. For consecutive nights, Elias has found it _odd_ to see the familiar asleep by her door. Right there, _outside_ , at the hallway.

The first time he happened upon Ruth in such a way, he inquired why Ruth was not by Chise's side, guarding her sleep, accompanying her in dreams. It is an abnormality in their routine. The large dog uncurled itself, black fur glimmering under the dim lights. His form then gave way to a human face and a human body and Elias stared deep into sharp red eyes.

 _"She's a woman."_

That was all Ruth had to say.

Chise is a young woman. _Of course_. A woman grown. As if something of that nature needs to be pointed out to him.

Elias convinces himself that he understands. Even when uncertainty burrows itself inside of him. It is akin to gazing at an unfinished painting. The hues and the shapes are familiar, easily recognizable. His mind produces the finished picture. But he remains unsure if what he conjures up is indeed the conclusion to that piece. And it will remain that way unless he seeks for the rest of the details.

He studies the tightly shut door for a while longer, gloved hands itching for the polished knob. Her health is of the utmost importance to him. It is only normal to wonder, to be curious, to have the desire to know that she is nothing besides _well_. His fingers touch the hard wood, unconsciously running along the nicks and cracks.

Before he decides to leave it be for a night longer.

* * *

She goes about her day in the same fashion, tasks herself with household chores, keeps herself busy with her studies.

Silky has made her a dress to fit with the summer's heat. It is white and light, simple and suitable just for her build.

And in the study's limited space, his eyes are caught trailing the intricate trims of her dress. The lace falls around her small shoulders in the most careless of ways. He notices how most of her back is bared as she balances on the tip of her toes to reach for one of the books. Her whole body unfurls, almost like a graceful bow being pulled taut, slender and precise.

He supposes she has grown taller, with how she successfully retrieves a dusty book from a height she couldn't reach before.

He supposes she has grown.

 _Chise is a woman grown_.

And in that single sentence... something seems to elude him, something significant that scratches him from within.

At that moment, she turns to him - eyes seemingly a deeper green, lush and shining. Her cheeks take another second before they are dusted with a shy of red.

A shy of red beneath her skin.

A shy of red like that of an apple.

Ripe and edible.

* * *

Later that evening during supper, Elias observes.

Silky has prepared a simple meal. The smell of curry powder permeates his nose. Across the square table, he watches Chise pierce a piece of chicken saturated in Indian spices. She praises the cook along with Ruth, unable to hide their delight for the food. She engages the familiar in conversation, usual and meaningless. She smiles the same, laughs the same. But an unsettling feeling continues to nag him.

She turns to him - eyes seemingly a deeper green.

"Elias... Would you care for more tea?", she asks. And he does not miss the way his name catches in her voice.

Caught. Stuck. Trapped.

His name and him.

It feels like a minute before he manages to take his eyes off of her. He looks down at the empty cup before him. His jaw parts, "Please.", he breathes out - a single word nothing but a rasp. Chise's lips curl into a small smile, nearly imperceptible. She slips out of her chair and his eyes follow the dress' fabric fall to cover the length of her body.

She retrieves the porcelain pot, carefully proceeds to pour him freshly brewed tea. Her proximity heightens his senses. He chooses to watch the golden amber liquid fill the British ivory. Scents of ginger and lemon enter his nostrils. But a warmer one piques his curiosity... something close to vanilla... root of maca.

Maca root improves energy and memory.

His thoughts drift to her.

"Do you plan to stay up late tonight?"

He takes notice of how she seems to curl in on herself, her shoulders slacking just a bit, leading his eyes to the curve of her collarbones - delicate like twigs.

"Not so late." Her words trip over themselves. And she forces ease into her muscles, her stance relaxing in the next heartbeat. "There's just this book I would like to finish."

A hum rumbles in his chest, stating his interest.

"And it's called?"

She shies away.

Like a flower being blown on by the wind.

She shies away, hurries to set the pot on the marble counter - she shies away from him.

How strange it is that she seems harboring secrets, he thinks as he takes a generous sip from his cup of tea.

"The title is Ulysses.", she soon confesses.

* * *

It is not his intention to know.

He expects her presence in the library, only to find it empty. He intends to read with her for an hour or two, only to find her not where he predicted her to be.

Elias leads himself to her room, stares at the stark hallway - clear of her familiar. He eyes her door. And the urge to uncover the source of the little abnormalities gets stronger with every second that slips by him.

His hand balls in a loose fist, the immaculate white glove seems to float in the darkness.

Once. Twice.

Light taps of his knuckles, gentle on the carved door.

"Chise?"

Voice low but loud enough to announce his intrusion.

It is not his intention.

* * *

She is face down on the mattress, head turned to the other side, away from the entryway where he towers.

The moon's rays bathe her in a cool glow, calming... soothing... producing a semblance of innocence.

Innocence that is easily broken with a cry, immediately smothered by the sheets.

The melody roots him in place as his eyes take in the vision she provides.

A hand slithers out from right under her, in a haste and grabbing at the blankets. Her fingers grip tight as she releases a groan - the sound is so foreign to his ears, but hardly unwelcome. All of her limbs seem to be pulled taut in the next moment. So taut that something feels like snapping.

Her other hand remains right under her, in a haste... frantic and rubbing.

Her red tresses create interesting patterns on the covers, sensual in their twists and in their curls.

Her skin is slathered with sweat, twinkling and enticing under the low light.

White fabric, gossamery and veil-like, pools around her - ebbing and flowing like lapping waves as she is torn with pleasure.

Her name is but a rasp passing sharp teeth, like barbed wires eagerly wrapping and catching on skin.

She gasps. Her head snaps to his frozen figure by the door.

And time stutters.

* * *

 _"the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendor, when visible: her attraction, when invisible..."_


End file.
